Distortion
by InterruptingDinosaur
Summary: Three years before Sherlock had ever learned of the existence of Moriarty, Molly had met Jim. It was a mistake, truly, but if she was really being honest, she'd say it was her greatest one.


**Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and story from BBC and Arthur Conan Doyle. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.**

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><p>Three years before Sherlock had ever learned of the existence of Moriarty, Molly had met Jim. It was a mistake, truly, but if she was really being honest, she'd say it was her greatest one.<p>

She'd found him in an alleyway on her way home, bleeding from a gunshot wound on the left side of his chest, just barely missing his heart. Lacking her mobile phone at the time, she'd managed to drag him back to her flat without anyone noticing. She'd almost called for an ambulance, but he had managed to gain consciousness long enough to tell her no.

She pulled out the bullet herself, bandaged him, and let him sleep on her bed while she took the couch, not knowing who he was and what the consequences would be. He remained unconscious whenever she was around, but she suspected that he had been waking up while she was at work for most of the day. More than once, she caught herself watching him sleep; his face vulnerable and unassuming. She would realize later that it would have been just as easy to slit his throat as it had been to save him.

Then, one day, she came home and he was gone, like he had never existed.

She never expected him to see him again, though a part of her hoped to catch a glimpse of him in a large crowd or a busy street, something that would tell her that she had not imagined the whole thing.

One year later, a man threatened her with a gun for her purse, just a block away from her flat. Two days later, the same mugger was lying in the morgue, his corpse pale under the fluorescent lighting. She'd dismissed it as a coincidence, karma, but when she got home that night, her missing purse was sitting on the kitchen table with a simple note next to it_. I never thanked you properly._

It didn't stop there, these mysterious favours: other missing items would find their way back to her; cabs would always be waiting for her when she was done working late shifts at the hospital; and she would suddenly win "free" items that would be delivered to her doorstep.

At first, it was terrifying; she felt like she was being watched all the time, but as time passed, she grew to be grateful for these things. She felt taken care of, like someone cared about her.

But it would be another year before he finally came back. It was a Sunday night. She was already asleep when there was knocking at her door. It was him, though she had not expected it, and he had scared her. He asked to come in, if he could stay the night because there were no other "satisfactory accommodations." She let him in before she could stop herself from examining the situation too closely. The cautious side of her would have urged her to slam the door in this strange, but she was curious, drawn to the enigma of it all.

Thus, he became Jim Moriarty rather than a nameless stranger she had found; Jim in private, but Moriarty to everyone else. She shivered when he whispered it, his dark eyes keenly watching her for a reaction. She had not actually _known_ at the time, it would have been impossible to know what he had done, what he would do. But the way he spoke, the way he held himself, it was a warning. He was dangerous, and she was the proverbial moth fluttering towards the flame.

She had been, for all her life, been safe, dependable, cautious, and predictable. She had a routine that hardly ever varied, because she had always lived by the idea that it was better to be safe and endure the tediousness of it rather than be thrown into danger, there was always a risk of everything going wrong.

She blended into the background because she thought she belonged there.

But Jim was proved her wrong; he was fun and wonderful, and for the first time in her existence, she felt like she was worth the interest of someone like him. The adrenaline made her breathless, and the idea that she could be _bad_ gave her shivers. Jim's life sounded so glamorous in comparison to her colourless one, so when he offered her the chance to help him, she said yes. It wasn't like she made a conscious decision to change, to slip into the skin of this new person; it just happened… somehow.

Sometimes, he allowed her to sit in during various "meetings." For the most part, he would mostly ignore her during these gatherings, and she was satisfied with being taciturn… for a little while. She would stay silent and survey the room full of killers; always carefully keeping her expression blank when she looked at them. It made her feel powerful and respected, especially when they would give her quizzical looks, wishing to know what it was about her that made Moriarty want to keep her around. They were wary of her. If she could secure Moriarty's favour, what else could she be capable of?

For her first time, she had been nervous, but when it was over, she stood over the body and felt strangely triumphant, like performing her first autopsy in medical school. At one of the gatherings, Jim had been displeased with one of the men. Afterwards, Jim had pulled her aside and surreptitiously asked her to take care of it. It was a test, and she felt the need to show him that his faith in her was not wasted. She had lured the man into a deserted alleyway a couple days later. He had been ridiculously easy; the arrogant bastard thought he was going to get lucky. She'd shot him. Twice, to make sure he was really dead, and then left the body where it was, trying to hide the fact that she was shaking as she walked away.

Later, she was the one who did the post-mortem examination on him, marveling at how calm and natural she felt standing over a man she had only killed yesterday. Of course, Sherlock Holmes had swept in at the most inopportune moment and demanded to see the body. She put an act for him; she stuttered, turned red, and tried to tell him he wasn't really allowed. He smiled, complimented her lipstick, and she obliged because that was what she was supposed to do, this meek and scared version of her that he was familiar with. She was pleased that he noticed the lipstick though; it was brand new.

In the beginning, she had reacted to Sherlock Holmes in the same way a nocturnal creature must react to bright light, frozen in fear and fascination. His self-centered tendencies didn't bother her, just as long he cared long enough to smile at her so she could wheel out the next dead body for him to examine. She had wanted his attention, but feared she would not know what to do with it if she did get it. Fortunately, the silly school-girl crush slowly receded when Jim opened her eyes, and she was left with a hollow part of heart that filled with bitterness. Not hate, because to hate would meant she loved, and she had never loved him, despite how much she thought she did. He was a small reminder of the simple-minded girl she used to be, and during long nights, she felt that her past crushed down on her.

Sherlock was Jim's enemy, and by extension, he was also her enemy as well. However, for the sake of pretense, she continued to bring him coffee and allow him to steal various body parts when her back was turned. But each time she looked at him, she silently mocked him. Sherlock Holmes with his brilliant mind, who was so much better than the rest of the stupid population, still had no idea who she was. It was enough to make her want to laugh maniacally every time she encountered him.

One time, as she was putting in the sugar, she realized how easy it would be to slip something into his drink, to get rid of him for good. But Jim wouldn't have liked that; he wanted to play. That same day, she also met John Watson; he was unimpressive and she forgot his name as soon as she left the room. That was a mistake she would come to regret later.

The first act involved the cab driver. In her opinion, it was so well planned out, a little puzzle to get Sherlock to notice them; she and Jim had sat at the kitchen table, writing down the plan on napkin because they were too excited to search for actual paper. Once a week, she would pick the lock of the cabbie's flat and add a little bit of poison to his salt shaker, not enough to kill him, but enough for him to build a tolerance to it to make him think he was invincible; stupid man, but so useful.

They had been so close. It had been beautiful to watch Sherlock's fingers hold the pill just inches away from his mouth; the anticipation of it making her heart race and her breath hitch in her throat. But then John had showed up and ruined the whole show. She was relieved for the smallest fraction of a second before feeling irritated; she'd gone to so much work to show Jim she was valuable, to make him proud. But Jim had just laughed, scraping his teeth lightly against her neck as he did so, and told her that he had more games planned.

A few weeks later, Jim brought her a jade hair pin, another stolen antiquity, similar to the one recovered by Sherlock and John. She was not sure, though, if this was meant to be a trivial gift or a marker of another failure. He was dangerously moody at times, unpredictably shifting, and she had learned it was best to leave him alone when he turned stony silent. She'd learned the difficult way; he'd snarled at her more than once, even threatening to kill her while she slept. She wasn't sure whether to be afraid or angry to him.

This time, though, she knew he had angry. If Shan hadn't been so preoccupied with the theatrics, John Watson would be conveniently dead and out of the way. She often wondered if Sherlock had ever considered that _he_ was the most dangerous person to John Watson. John was the barrier that protected Sherlock, but there were those who would gladly tear John down with clawing, bloody hands, and she was afraid that she would be the first one to do it, just to prove that she could.

Jim told her about Carl Powers once, when they were in bed, his breath hot against the back of her neck. It was not his first kill, not by far, but it was the one where he'd been introduced to Sherlock Holmes, not formally of course, but from a distance. He was a life-long obsession for Jim, this counter-part of him. They both viewed the world as their playground, death as a momentary distraction from their own realities, and yet, they were so different, like the two sides of coin. She could tell by the way his eyes would become almost feverish when he talked about Sherlock, the volume of his voice always increasing as he became more and more excited. Yes, Jim Moriarty and Sherlock Holmes were made for each other: Jim made the riddles and Sherlock solved them.

After watching a program on the television about suicide bombings, Jim found himself a new hobby, which included vests with Semtex; after all, what was the fun of shooting people anymore? All they did was bleed and collapse. Bombs could take them apart, like the reversal of jigsaw puzzle. But the best part was that they finally had Sherlock's full attention.

To make it even more fun, Jim decided to get a job in the IT department. She would continue to lament over Sherlock on her kitten-filled blog, while they both dropped hints to their colleagues that they were dating. It was their private joke.

She introduced him to Sherlock, knowing full well that he would think that it was her pathetic attempt to make him jealous. In a way, it was, but she had wanted him to come to her so she could have the satisfaction of stomping on his heart this time. Of course, Sherlock barely glanced at him before declaring Jim was gay. It wasn't a difficult deduction; Jim had made it obvious with the underwear. She had gotten mad and huffed at them before leaving the lab; at least the good doctor looked embarrassed for her. Afterwards, she and Jim had both laughed until they cried. He had even suggested sending Sherlock the underwear, but ultimately decided against it; the underwear was expensive.

The games continued, and she watched Sherlock solve each one with obvious relish. There had been so many other things Jim could have turned Sherlock's attention to, but Jim insisted on giving Sherlock the case of the faked Vermeer painting, the one she had set up through Marjeta Wenceslas. Jim had said not to worry, that Sherlock did not have any basic knowledge of even the solar system, there was not a chance that he would figure out the key to unraveling the deception was the Van Buren Supernova. He told her not to pout, but she couldn't help but feel like a child whose favourite play thing was just snatched away.

Jim had let Sherlock approach him for the last game; the pool would be the place of the much-anticipated meeting; Jim thought it was ironically fitting. She wanted to shoot Sherlock and get it over with, but Jim loved the suspense and the drama; he wasn't _quite_ done playing yet. She watched them on a laptop from the back of the car; they'd planted a hidden camera in the pool area because it was the only way she could see what was going on without revealing herself.

As she watched Sherlock rush to save John, clearly concerned and relieved, she felt a twinge of emotion in her gut. Jealousy? No, not quite. Sherlock had never cared about anyone else before, but he clearly cared about John. There was a bond between them, something she lacked with anyone. She thought about Jim, but she could not see him forming an attachment to anyone like that. It was not quite love between them, at least she wasn't naive enough to think that. She had been around him long enough now to give a good guess as to why he still kept her around after her novelty had worn off. She amused him, in some strange way, and she was useful, especially when it came to spying on Sherlock. She realized, without much surprise, that soon, she may no longer be useful, once Sherlock was dead. Jim would likely grow bored and move on, gratitude for everything she'd done for him be damned.

Of course, not all the explosives on the vest were real; Jim would never have put himself into such a precarious situation, but there was enough on there to make a large enough distraction for him to slip away. He had only wanted to see how much Sherlock was willing to risk, and now he knew. This was not the end Jim had intended; he promised to burn the heart out of Sherlock, and Jim always kept his word.

She returned innocuously to her flat that evening, and played the part of the confused and innocent victim perfectly. She cried when the police arrived at her door and searched her flat and profusely apologized to Sherlock and John, swearing that she had no idea what had been going on. They all believed her, of course; no one suspected her to be involved when she could barely form a coherent sentence between sobs. At work, she would flinch any time a colleague would slam a door too loud or unexpectedly spoke to her. They all pitied her, the stupid girl who didn't know her gay boyfriend was actually a killer, but they patted her back reassuringly, and told her that Jim was gone. For now.

In the months that followed, contact with Jim had been limited; his last message came from Belgium and gave vague hints of another attempt to lure Sherlock back into playing the twisted game. She assumed John would involved again, but since the kidnapping, the army doctor had been heavily guarded, accompanied everywhere by Sherlock.

In the mean time, she took care of Jim's business in Britain, temporarily slipping into his role as she attended meetings and gave orders to be carried out. But even then, it was limited; she was aware she was under surveillance by both the British government and the police, for her protection, they had insisted. In his absence, all of Moriarty's contacts answered to her, and as they very quickly discovered, she was just as ruthless, proven when she killed a banker who refused to bend to her authority at the last meeting. There would be no usurpers; they were afraid of her in the beginning, but now, they were terrified.

Sometime later, she was informed of Jim being in Switzerland, and when John and Sherlock suddenly disappeared at the same time, giving a vague excuse of going on vacation, she knew they must have received the same news. She faked a hysterical breakdown at work which provided a convenient excuse to depart the country. She went to Switzerland alone, and when she had arrived, she made sure to say out of sight. The small town of Meiringen was likely to gossip about strangers, and she did not want Sherlock or John catch onto that suspicion and find her.

Jim had picked Reichenbach Falls, where he would wait for Sherlock. On the other side of the Falls and hidden by the trees and shrubbery, she was able to observe the encounter between Sherlock and Jim through a pair of binoculars. She was unable to make out what they were saying to each other, but both had pulled their guns out, eyeing each other uneasily. John was absent, she noticed, and she wondered how Sherlock had managed to dissuade him from coming.

It wasn't more than a few minutes when a fight had ensued; they had managed to knock the guns out of each other's hands and were now grappling each other, locked in a mortal struggle, each trying to gain the upper hand. Beside her, the snipers were tense; she assumed that Jim had given them the order to not shoot unless he was in immediate danger; he wanted to kill Sherlock himself.

Then, anticlimactically, Jim had lost his footing, falling over the edge, but not before pulling Sherlock down with him, both swallowed by the roaring water. It all happened within the span of a few seconds, but it was enough to set her heart was pounding.

She and the two snipers had gone down to see if they could find anything, but a preliminary search yielded nothing. They split up, and she went farther down river in search of any sign of either of them.

It was almost an hour later when she finally found Jim; he had managed to half-drag himself onto the river bank. She knelt down beside him, keeping her eyes open for any clues of Sherlock nearby. If Jim survived the drop, there was a very good chance Sherlock did as well.

His eyes were closed, but she could tell he was still breathing. For a moment, she was reminded of the first time she'd ever found him, defenseless and completely at her mercy. She could save him again, but was she willing to go back to being his obedient tool? She briefly pondered this. There was always the chance that Jim would not be so merciful later. She had been useful, yes, but replaceable. She would have to wait and count down the days in fear of when Jim would decide that he'd had enough. She refused to return to being the foolish girl she used to be; she was gone now.

She reached in her pocket and took out her gun; it had once been gift from Jim. He opened his eyes at the touch of the metal against his head, and a look of surprise flitted across his face for a moment. He owed her his life from five years ago, and now, she was going to claim it.

It was quick and painless, a small, last mercy.

Behind her, she could hear the heavy footsteps of one of the snipers. She could imagine his eyes darting between her and the dead body. "Miss Molly?" he asked uncertainly.

"No," she said. "It's Moriarty. I'm Moriarty now."

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><p><strong>AN: **

The idea that Molly gets mugged and then has her mugger on her autopsy table was borrowed from _victor meet spoils_ by mira-jade, an excellent piece of fanfiction. I highly suggest it.

I am also aware that at Reichenbach Falls, in the story, neither Moriarty nor Sherlock bring weapons, but in modern day, it would be logical for them to be carrying guns to confront each other.

Thank you for reading, and comments and reviews are very much appreciated.

xo


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